Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
She nods hesitantly.
“It’s cute you’d think it would be that simple. I couldn’t give a fuck if he knows that I’m a professional hockey player.”
“Then why are you so angry?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Because he can’t remember all the shitty things he did to me. He has no recollection of the hell he put me through. I can’t even tell him the truth of things. He’d fucking forget it.”
She goes still.
My voice drops, rough, shaking with everything I’ve tried to bury. “You have no idea what it’s like… the pain of seeing someone who put you through hell now be blind to the hell he created. To look at you like none of it ever happened.”
The words hang between us, jagged and final.
The cab idles at the curb, engine humming. I open the door, climb in, and don’t look back.
Daisy’s still standing there in the wash of neon and brake lights, her face unreadable but her eyes wide like she’s finally glimpsed the real story hiding under the headlines.
“Hotel Adolphus,” I tell the driver.
As we pull away, the club fades behind me, swallowed by darkness and sound. I have no idea why I shared that with Daisy. Very few people know the hell I went through growing up, and yet I just blurted it all out.
I don’t think about my dad or the shitty childhood I had. Instead, I try to figure out what it is about Daisy Turner that made me trust in her enough to share my darkness.
Chapter 9
Grizz
By the time the wheels hit the runway, Vegas already tempts us with its siren-like beckoning. It’s a sprawl of flashing lights and desert heat, stitched together by big dreams and sin.
We don’t play the Spades until tomorrow night, the last game of our road trip, and tonight is ours to do with what we want. Our hotel’s attached to one of the biggest casinos on the Strip, a cathedral to excess. I hate the cloying vanilla-amber scent every luxury chain pumps through the vents, but at least it distracts me from the stale cigarette smoke.
Slot machines chatter in every direction, lights blinking as though they’re Morse code for addiction. Bells, buzzers, laughter. The rhythmic slap of cards on felt. A woman in sequins shrieks at a jackpot three tables over from where I’m walking while a dealer’s voice cuts clean through the floor’s noise: “Blackjack pays three to two!”
Tanner whistles low as we step through the scene, his eyes wide. “Gentlemen, welcome to the promised land.”
To the left, a poker table’s half ringed with men in suits who look like they haven’t seen daylight in days. Their faces are stone, except for one guy chewing on a cigar and nursing a bourbon, likely not his first or last today.
To the right, a row of roulette tables spins endlessly—red, black, red again—the sound of the ball rattling in its groove. Cocktail servers weave through the maze of tables in heels too high and smiles too practiced, trays balanced with martinis and highballs.
Deacon’s already peeled off toward the blackjack tables, his signature smirk in place. Two rookies trail behind him, wide-eyed.
Tanner turns to me, grin feral. “We’re in heaven, Grizz. Or hell. But either way, drinks are free.”
“I can’t believe you want to drink after your tequila bender last night,” I mutter.
Tanner came stumbling into our room in Dallas at close to four a.m. and passed out as soon as he hit the mattress. Of course, he has no recollection of what he said about my dad in front of Daisy and I’m not about to bring it up. I get that he was well on his way to blackout drunk and meant nothing by it.
Thankfully, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of my PR babysitter, although she did text me that she was in Vegas and available if I needed her. It sounds like she’s giving me space, but we have tonight off and I wouldn’t put it past her to stalk me to make sure I stay out of trouble.
I glance around at the spinning lights, the laughter, the endless hum of greed and luck colliding. Vegas feels alive in the way danger always does.
Two women in matching sashes that read BRIDE TRIBE materialize out of the crowd sporting skimpy dresses, spray tans, and a cloud of pungent body spray that also distracts me from the smoke smell.
They’re both mid-thirties, very clearly from out of town as they exude Midwest energy that’s equal parts sweet and unhinged.
“You boys look like pro athletes,” one of them shouts, eyes round and excited.
Tanner and I exchange a grin. “Very perceptive, sweetheart.”
“Are you football players?” one of them asks, twirling her hair around her finger.
“Hockey,” Tanner replies with a wink, and they both squeal.
The blond wearing a glittery cowboy hat says, “We’re from Missouri! It’s my bachelorette party!”